


heart nailed open

by perfchan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Memory Loss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Keith (Voltron), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28465467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: “You got a haircut.”Keith freezes, one arm halfway out of his coat sleeve. It’s the brown one with the plaid lining, the one that doesn’t match anything else he owns, but is too practical to get rid of. He pulls it off his other arm and holds it tight to his chest. Shakes his head.“Not recently?”Shiro frowns.Keith dips forward and doesn’t shiver when curious fingers tangle in the hair at the back of his neck. Shiro’s palm feels large on the back of his skull as his fingers fist, gentle, into Keith’s hair, and then relax. He pulls them free, expression thoughtful. Keith watches through his bangs as he straightens up.“Been like that for awhile,” he smiles, apologetic.Shiro smiles back, tightness between his brows crumbling to an open kind of trust. “Huh. I must’ve… gotten mixed up.”*A slow story about filling in the blanks.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

i.

Keith pushes back the sleeve of his jacket to check the time. 12:07. He copies it down in the column next to his name on the sign in sheet. Underneath his entry from yesterday, which he marked at 12:03. And his entry from the day before, marked at 12:11. 

“How is he today?” he asks Darlene. She works the front desk, Monday through Thursdays, seven in the morning ‘til seven at night. Lunch at eleven. Back before noon. It’s a Tuesday, today, so she’ll have been to the Subway across the street for a sandwich. He looks for the telltale cup and finds it next to her computer keyboard, condensation dripping down the plastic, leaving circles on a hot pink post-it that serves as a coaster. 

“Better after seeing you,” Darlene responds, not unkind. This is also part of the routine. 

The halls are empty, walls scrubbed white-clean. Big windows on the North side, letting weak afternoon sunshine dapple over clean tile. It’s January, going on February. It’s been a year, over a year now. Keith’s boots knock in a familiar pattern as he makes his way to Shiro’s room. 

The door is left open, wide enough for Keith to see that Shiro isn’t in his bed. He raps twice against the doorframe before stepping inside. Down the hall, one of the other residents is arguing with the cleaning staff. Keith should know their names, but he doesn’t remember off hand. 

Shiro is at the desk. At first he doesn’t see Keith, too caught up in the notes he’s making. He wasn’t a lefty before, he says, and it still shows in the awkward way that he curls his wrist to hold the pen. According to him, his handwriting has always been practically illegible though; more than once Shiro’s made the joke that at least now he has an excuse for it. Keith watches him pause, black ballpoint pen hovering over the page like the expression about the other shoe and dropping. 

He smiles when he sees Keith come in. “Keith!” And then, “Give me just a minute,” softer under his breath. He finishes the thought he was writing and sets the ballpoint pen down, diagonal over the lined page. 

“Hey Shiro.” Keith returns the smile. Feels some small bit of tension leave his shoulders at seeing Shiro looking so bright. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Good!” Shiro smiles, getting up to embrace Keith, the way he always does. “I feel really good.” He squeezes Keith under his one arm, releasing him just fast enough that Keith only catches the briefest hint of the facility’s lemongrass fragranced body wash. 

“I’m glad, Shiro,” Keith says, really meaning it. Seeing Shiro glum and not being able to do anything about it— it’s one of the most frustrating things in the world. But today’s a good day. Keith can tell. He shrugs off his jacket, folds it over his arm. “What were you writing?” 

Shiro sets his jaw. The way he does when he is asked a question he rather get out of answering. He looks at Keith, right in the face. “The next great American novel.” he replies, dry. At Keith’s expression, Shiro huffs out the smallest laugh. “Wow. Guess I should contact my publisher.” 

He gives Keith that goofy smile that he has— the one usually reserved for breaking the mood into something more manageable, the one that almost always follows a terrible attempt at humor, the one that Keith loves. It’s boyish and lighthearted and a little crooked. Shiro wields it like a finishing blow, most days, and today is no exception to the rule. The two of them laugh, soft; joy sweet enough to keep close. 

Keith leans back, half sitting on the end of Shiro’s bed. Even after all this time, it’s still the kind that resembles a hospital bed: too narrow for Shiro’s broad frame, wheels locked into place underneath, and the kind of footboard made of white plastic, sculpted to have large holes at the top of either side. A pole for hanging IVs at one side of the headboard, stationed there like an ill omen waiting in the wings. A sick bed, made for wheeling a patient around. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Shiro.” Keith says, honest. 

Shiro softens. “Just.” He walks over to the desk, flipping through the used pages of the notebook for a moment before he closes it, pen still inside. The cover of it is blue; different than the one in which he was writing last week. He taps against his temple. “Trying to sort through all this.” 

“Is it helping?” 

“What do you think?” Shiro says. Once again dry, but not angry. Just tired. 

Keith nods. Someone else might offer a kind word here, or try to sympathize, but that’s not what Shiro needs, he thinks. He doesn’t say anything. 

“Tell me about the shop,” Shiro says, instead of continuing down that route. He clears his throat. “Did any characters come in this morning?” He settles in opposite Keith, half sitting against the edge of his desk. A rectangle of sunlight from the room’s sole window is on the floor between them, like a golden colored rug. 

“Mm.” Keith crosses his legs— ankle resting over his knee— and leans back as if he’s trying to touch the ceiling with his nose. It’s been a quiet morning. Maybe things will pick up this afternoon, but Keith’s not holding his breath. Some days, a lot of days, he only has a few customers wander in the whole day long. “No, not really.” At Shiro’s expectant face, he offers, “Mr. Bartlett came in with another radio.” 

Shiro tilts his head. “Keith. No one has that many radios. He’s scamming you.” 

Keith scowls. He’s been in this business long enough to spot a con. Mr. Bartlett’s radios are broke as hell, but usually fixable, if Keith keeps at it long enough. Keith isn’t giving him much for them, but the old man probably needs the money. And Keith even managed to sell one of them last week after spending some time refurbishing it. “It’s fine,” he mutters, trying to ease his shoulders down from his ears and take the surly-ness out of his voice. 

Shiro makes a dubious sounding noise of assent. Keith looks up from the linoleum tiled floor just in time to see a slow smile cross his face. Different than the one from before. 

“What?” he asks. 

“It’s just.” Shiro lifts his hand, rubbing it across his mouth like he can hide the smile. “Soon you’ll have so many radios, you’ll have to change the name of the shop to Radio Shack.” 

“...” Keith furrows his brows and stares at Shiro for a solid minute, watching in unimpressed dismay as the smile gets wider and wider. “Radio Shack,” he finally repeats. 

Shiro bites his lip and nods, clearing holding back a laugh. 

“Fuck, how old  _ are _ you,” Keith finally caves— and Shiro is laughing, broad shoulders shaking as he huffs for breath. The sound is loud and carrying and soon Keith is snorting along with him, shaking his head. “Shiro—”

“Not that old!!” Shiro defends the indefensible joke with a wave of his hand. “That was funny, Keith, you have to admit— you set yourself up for it.” 

“How?!” Keith sputters. He can’t help but grin when Shiro starts chuckling again instead of attempting to explain. It’s good to see him so lighthearted. That isn’t always the case when Keith visits. 

He stays lighthearted for the rest of Keith’s lunch break. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Keith tells him, cheek smooshed against Shiro’s collarbones a second time. He resists the urge to wrap Shiro in a full embrace and hold him. Inhale against his skin. Could he breathe deep enough to smell beyond the tart lemongrass? Would Shiro let him?

“If you want,” Shiro says lightly, withdrawing from Keith’s arms. “I know you’re busy, Keith. Don’t feel obligated.” He’s repeated it so often that it just sounds like a standard part of their routine. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Keith repeats, firmer this time. Like he always does. 

His boots knock down the opposite side of the hall this time. The sunshine isn’t so warm that he can feel it on his cheeks as he passes each of the windows. He turns up the collar on his jacket in anticipation of the cold. 

At the front desk, Darlene is on a phone call, but she shoots him a smile when she slides the cup with the pens closer to him. Keith pushes up the sleeve on his jacket to look at his watch. 1:14. His entry from check-out yesterday says 1:26. The line above that says 1:05. 

He lifts his hand in goodbye and slips out the door. Crosses the asphalt to where he leaves his bike— parked towards the side of the building, out of the way. It roars to life underneath him as he turns the key and walks it out of the spot. 

ii.

He passes by the storefront on his way home, slowing his bike to dip into the alley that divides TK Pawn from the insurance broker next door. The lid is off the dumpster again, so Keith stops and fixes it before parking his motorcycle on the cement square that butts up against the shop’s back door. The other side of the building is next to an eternally overflowing used car lot. **(Jerry’s Auto Sales WE FINANCE no credit check** , reads the garish yellow sign out front. An eternal message— it’s said the same since Keith moved in.) Keith pulls off his black riding gloves to shove them in his pockets, and unlocks the back door to his shop. 

Toni lifts her head from the dog bed in the corner. When she sees that it’s only Keith, she goes back to snoozing, though not before wagging her tail. She knows his hours and it’s not dinner or closing time just yet. 

He hangs his jacket up next to the door in the backroom, stepping over the hose of a vacuum cleaner he’s not yet found a spot for on the shop’s floor. He winds his way through a menagerie of mismatched kitchen table chairs before he can pass through the door that leads to the actual sale’s floor. From there it’s only slightly more organized— furniture and vintage electronics, a variety of instruments against the far wall, glass cases with jewelry and watches and even a small selection of knives. 

The door to the shop is glass. The lettering on it is chipped in some places, but still legible: 

TK Pawn

Antiques, Collectables, Uncommon Goods 

Keith turns over the bolt in the door, unlocking the store for business now that he’s back from lunch. He flips the CLOSED sign to OPEN, peers out into the street. The owner of the combination laundromat-barber shop across the street is sitting outside on a folding chair— Keith lifts his hand in greeting, but the man either doesn’t see him or doesn’t care. 

He returns to the project he was working on prior to going to see Shiro: repairing one of the legs on the wooden chairs scattered in the back room. Keith’s been doing this kind of restoration work since he inherited the shop at eighteen. It was not without its learning curves, but this is an easy project. It should have been done already, but Mr. Bartlett likes to talk and it took the better part of an hour to buy the radio off him. 

The chair has a broken foot— that’s all that’s wrong with it. Soon enough the sharp smell of epoxy mingles with dust from the sander. Keith opens the back door and the chill creeps in to greet him. While he’s up, he decides on what stain will suit the antique wood best, what will match the new foot with the rest of the chair: walnut, a rich, dark walnut. He finds a clean foam brush in one of the cups on his workbench. 

The afternoon bleeds into evening like that: Keith finishes the chair and chooses a place for it on the sales floor. It’ll dry overnight. Maybe over two nights. He’ll decide in the morning, but it’s good to be prepared. While he’s rearranging, the bell on the door chimes and a woman comes in. Not young or old, with heels that thunk over the shop’s threadbare blue carpet. She heads straight for the jewelry cases, spends a lot of time looking at the rings. Keith can imagine that maybe she’s looking for something she lost. 

“Let me know if you want to see anything,” Keith calls over to her when she bends closer to the glass. 

She must not find what she’s looking for. The bell on the door chimes again, and the shop is quiet. 

*

At eight, almost exactly on the hour, Toni finds him sorting through a stack of invoices near the register. Her paws and muzzle are speckled gray now, but she’s energetic in letting Keith know that it’s time for dinner. She boofs the back of his legs and generally gets under foot as Keith pulls down the gate, bolts the front door. The dog leads him to the back of the shop, watches with great anticipation as Keith sets the alarm for the night and locks up. 

His apartment is above the shop. Salt, leftover from the last time it snowed, crunches under Keith’s boots as he climbs the wooden stairs. He slips his boots off at the door. 

“Alright, alright,” Keith huffs through a smile, flicking on the lights to the kitchen. Toni trots over the tiles, impatient as she heads for the cabinet that houses her kibble. He follows, giving her a stern look. “I heard you the first time, okay? Siddown. I’m getting it.” 

His own dinner is reheated leftovers, paired with a beer. Nothing fancy, but satisfying. He eats with gusto, scrapes the fork over the plate when he’s done. Washes the plate afterwards— he’ll use the same one tomorrow, same fork too— sets it near the sink to dry. 

He finds his ashtray next to the mail on the kitchen counter, takes a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket in his jacket. The window at the front of his apartment— it overlooks the street below— has a sofa close enough to lean on and still see out. He cracks the window, shakes out a cigarette while watching the traffic. He exhales the first drag, close enough to fog up the glass. It’s getting colder. 

There are nights, often, that he takes a walk after supper. But tonight, the draw of the blanket over the back of his couch is too warm and too great; as soon as the dishes are done, he settles into the corner of the sofa under the throw and finds the page where he left off in his book. The shop downstairs serves as his library. He reads plenty of romance novels that way— pink and red spines, sometimes cracked with age— but this isn’t one of those. It came from a young guy, in his early twenties, maybe, who carried in three large cardboard boxes, all full of Westerns. From his grandfather, the guy said, though he wasn’t a talker. 

Toni and the gritty words of Louis L’Amour keep him company until he starts nodding off. Flips the book to check how many pages he has left. It’s no doorstop of a novel, but he has enough left that it makes sense to leave it for tomorrow. 

iii. 

The old radio from Mr. Bartlett is more broken than Keith had originally thought. He spends the morning at the front desk of the shop, the pieces of the disemboweled radio laid out in rows over a workrag. He’ll clean the thing first, and see where he can go from there. 


	2. Chapter 2

iv.

One Sunday, when the shop is closed and Keith has the entire day to do whatever he likes, he and Shiro plan to go on a walk. He arrives, that day, a little after nine in the morning. Darlene is off for her weekend, and though there must be someone else working the front desk, Keith doesn’t see them. He records his name and the time on the sign-in sheet like always before heading to Shiro’s room. 

Inside his room, Shiro is dressed and ready for the elements— this day still lies within the firm grip of winter, cold enough for the snow to stick if it starts coming down, though the forecast says it won’t— 

Shiro looks absurd in the mismatched outerwear that he’s somehow gathered through donations from the other residents, all of whom are nowhere near his size or age. A pair of well loved running shoes, a poofy jacket with a faded tag left on the zipper from a skiing trip long ago, a yellowed-white beanie that clashes with Shiro’s silvergray hair in the best worst way. Keith gets the impression that Shiro must have been a man who dressed well, or at least cared about his appearance, based solely on the entirely unimpressed look that Shiro gives the complete ensemble in the full length mirror of his bathroom. He’s itching to say something self-deprecating— Keith can tell based off a certain twitch of his jaw— but the generosity of the folks who lent him the clothes in the first place stays his tongue. 

“I like the hat,” Keith offers, like the sly press of a finger on a scale to tip the weight. He fails at concealing a smirk. 

Shiro purses his lips. “Let’s just go, Keith.” He cracks. Mutters. “Before the retired jazzercise collective wants their clothes back.” 

Keith barks out a laugh. “It’s not that bad. But you need gloves. Won’t be cold right away, but once we get out there, you’ll feel it.” 

“Glove.” Shiro corrects. Just one. He motions to a pair laid out close by. Picks one up. “But.” 

Ah. 

“Let me,” Keith tells him. Without waiting for a response, he retrieves the one meant for the left hand. Toe-to-toe with Shiro, touches his wrist, motioning for Shiro to lift his hand. He orients the glove at the tip of Shiro’s fanned out fingers, guiding them in. Two of his fingers are pressed into Shiro’s palm as he pulls the fabric over his hand. Shiro’s hand is bigger than his own. Keith pushes between each of Shiro’s fingers, methodical, making sure the fit is snug. He tries to keep the movements brisque. Keeps his head bowed. Shiro so rarely mentions the need for help and allows it even less. The last thing Keith wants to do is make him feel awkward about it. Done, he looks up at Shiro. “Feel okay?” 

Shiro closes his hand into a fist. “Feels good,” he says. “Thanks, Keith.” 

He might be getting too warm, standing inside with all this on, Keith thinks. This close, he can see a flush over Shiro’s cheeks. It makes the hair-thin scar across the bridge of Shiro’s nose stand out. 

“Come on, then,” Keith tells him, with a tilt of his head. He doesn’t wait as he walks for the door. 

*

The facility campus is large. Far away enough from the city for clean sidewalks and green grass, when the weather is nicer. A thicket of white oaks, all winter bare for now, spreads out near the southside of the buildings. There’s a man-made pond on the other side, benches in even intervals along the winding path. Keith keeps one eye on Shiro as they walk, ready to suggest a break if Shiro seems to be tiring. He doesn’t want to push him beyond his limits. Or, more likely, let Shiro push himself too hard, and bear the consequences silently on his own.

Overhead, the sky is bright blue. The kind of sky that might shape up to be almost spring-like, if grey clouds wouldn’t roll in and bring the winter with them as the day goes on. It’s quiet. The wind is light and no one else is around. They walk past locked tennis courts and a covered picnic area, then closer to the woods. Keith thinks of a few ways to start conversation, but the silence doesn’t feel heavy between them, so he never gets around to saying them. Like that, they walk, side-by-side. Keith has his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He’d let Shiro lean against him if he wanted to, but Shiro doesn’t, and so Keith keeps the suggestion to himself. 

“How is the desk coming along? Did you finish stripping the old varnish last night like you planned?” 

The question pulls Keith out of his thoughts. “Yeah, actually.” He’s been refinishing an old roll top. He found it at a flea market two weeks prior, covered in pink chalk paint. A DIY project gone horribly wrong, but not unsalvageable. It’s solid wood, and beautifully made. “After that, I sanded it and cleaned the hardware from the drawer pulls.” It has seven drawers on each side, and one of them even has a false bottom. A real find. Hands now pulled out of his pockets, Keith describes the craftsmanship of the piece. Briefly, he looks up at Shiro at his side. “I have pictures. If you wanna see.” 

Shiro nods— far too enthusiastic for something so mundane— and Keith takes the opportunity to steer them towards one of the benches. It’s good for Shiro to rest now anyways. The faint flush in his cheeks has turned ruddy with chill and exertion. 

Keith sits first. He tells himself it's merely to stay warm that Shiro sits so close at his side. Or maybe to see the phone screen. Regardless, the closeness is...nice. He leans into him, his shoulder against Shiro’s chest. Their thighs flush together on the slats of the bench.

“Here’s the before,” Keith shows him the desk, in all it’s terrible Pepto-Bismol colored glory. “And the after,” he thumbs over to the next few images. 

“Keith. This looks great.” Shiro sounds so much more impressed than some sanding and paint stripper warrant. He’s close enough that Keith can feel the praise rumble in his chest. 

“It’s not done yet,” Keith reminds him, gruff. Looking away. “It’ll look much better in a few days.” 

Shiro nods. He leans even closer to Keith, pinching the screen to zoom in. “That must be your workbench?” He peers close at the phone in Keith’s hands, looking at the shelves in the back room of the shop. “And there’s the guitar that the girl brought in on Thursday.” 

“I— yeah.” Keith says, surprised that Shiro would care to remember such a small detail about his customers. Even down to the day of the week. "Jesus, Shiro, why'd you log that away?" 

Shiro shrugs, bumping Keith with his shoulder. 

People assume that Keith's not a talker, but really he doesn’t mind talking. It's just that no one seems to listen. They might act as if they are, but usually that’s all it is in the end: an act. He decided as much years ago, not long after his pop passed, and has since only ever been proven right. But. Shiro listens. And so, slowly, with Shiro, Keith has started enjoying opening up. He’s out of practice— even when he’s trying, sometimes the words come grinding out at a snail’s pace— but Shiro is patient. And, more than that, he actually seems to care what Keith is saying. This isn’t the first time that Keith has noticed. 

"You're a good listener.” Keith says quietly, clicking the phone screen to black before he shoves it back into his pocket. 

Shiro gives him a sunny smile before turning back to look at the direction from which they came. The low, white building of the facility hugs the ground, just a small section of it visible from their current vantage point. "It helps that you have a nice voice, Keith.” 

Keith tries to brush him off. He snorts. “Yeah right—” He grumbles. “Was being serious, Shiro.” 

“No,” Shiro refuses to give it up. “So was I. You have a wonderful voice. I’m sure you’ve been told that before. It’s warm and just a little rough. And kind. I love listening to you, Keith.” 

Keith’s face is hot. “Shut up.” He fiddles with the zipper of his coat, pulling it down and then up again. What the hell. 

“You could read audio books. Or do voice overs, like for television.” Shiro muses. 

“No I couldn’t.” Keith clears his throat, flustered. Too aware of the noise it makes. 

Shiro seems to think his reaction is funny. He squeezes Keith’s shoulder, just for a moment, and then stands. He offers Keith a hand, and when Keith takes it, Shiro squeezes that too. Like a private joke. ‘Warm and a little rough,’ he said.  _ Like sandpaper, _ Keith thinks. 

“Further out, or head back?” Keith asks him, shrugging towards the white building. They’ve been walking for awhile and he doesn’t want to overdo it. 

“Keith.” 

Keith lifts his brows, like,  _ what?  _

“Believe it or not, my legs are not likely to fall off from a gentle stroll around a paved walkway.” 

Keith frowns. “I was just—” He crosses his arms. “And— it’s cold.” 

“Of the two of us,” Shiro cuts him off, “I believe I’m the one with the expertise in limb deficiency.” He grins even though Keith doesn’t particularly think it’s funny. “Also,” Shiro adds, “Temperatures on Kerberos have been recorded as low as four hundred degrees below zero. So. I think I’ll manage.” 

“Kerberos?” Keith asks. 

It’s Shiro’s turn to frown. “One of Pluto’s moons,” he says slowly. He looks unsteady on his feet all of a sudden, like the wind’s been knocked out of him. 

Keith places a hand on his back. “Shiro?” 

“I’m alright, Keith.” Shiro inhales, giving Keith a shaky smile that doesn’t reach all the way into his eyes. His breath catches. The words come out clipped. “Maybe. Maybe it is better if we head back soon.” 

“Lean against me,” Keith instructs, easily maneuvering himself under Shiro’s arm. “We’ll walk just a little further out, there,” he points towards where the path loops back around, “And then we’ll come up the opposite way.” 

Shiro nods. 

Keith tightens his hold around Shiro’s waist, keeping him close. He looks straight ahead. It seems wrong to feel that this position is familiar. It shouldn’t be. But it is. 

They walk back, twin exhales parallel in the cold air, twin clouds of breath dissolving into nothing before their eyes. The quietness between them now isn’t exactly the same as it was before.

v.

There’s a cat. 

Keith first saw it over the summer, July maybe, or even earlier than that. He was coming out of the facility after a lunchtime visit with Shiro and noticed a cat sitting between two of the bushes that line the entrance sidewalks. Black with white markings, like it has a cardigan wrapped around and buttoned up just in the middle. Blue eyes, but dark blue, almost a coal gray. Strange for a cat. 

“Nice kitty,” Keith squatted down, holding a hand outstretched. “Here kitty, kitty.” 

That first day, it regarded him with a steady gaze. It made no move to come closer, but didn’t seem afraid. Discerning, yeah, but not afraid. He didn’t think much of it. That’s just cats in general. Keith prefers dogs. 

He’s seen it many times since, often lounging in that same spot. In the beginning, Keith figured that it must be a stray that lived outside the facility. Or maybe, he thought, it’s someone’s pet. Most of the residents are older; it makes sense that one of them would have a cat.

“Absolutely not.” Shelby had told Keith when he asked about it one day. Darlene was on vacation that week. The dog days of summer bearing down, she and her family went upstate to go boating before the kids had to go back to school. Shelby normally only works nights. After a miscommunication barring Keith from visiting Shiro after supper one day early on, Keith has always disliked her. Seems the feeling is mutual. “We have an incredibly strict no pets policy, Mr. Kogane. Mr. Shirogane receives almost constant special treatment as it is. Don’t push it.” 

Keith remembers biting the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from saying something in reply, or losing his temper completely. Darlene would have never been so rude. 

Still, it makes sense that the cat must be a stray that just lives around the facility. Despite their ‘policy,’ someone must feed it there. 

Except, three weeks later, Keith sees what he is _ sure _ is the same tuxedo cat at the grocery store. Miles and miles away from the facility. He walked out, holding a brown paper bag in each arm, turned toward the street, and there it was. Gray eyes watching him quietly from behind an atm just outside the front entrance. It blinked at him, slowly. 

“How did you get here?” Keith asked it. 

No reply. 

He saw the same cat at the gas station after that. 

At the post office. “Are you following me, little guy?” 

Back at the facility, sleeping on a windowsill near the dining room. 

At an estate sale, three towns over. The cat was sitting on a chest of drawers as if it owned the thing. “How are you here?” Keith asked it again, holding his hand out for the cat to sniff. It did, rubbing its soft face along his index finger. It was the first time the cat let him get close enough to pet. 

The day that Keith and Shiro go on a walk, Keith finds the cat even closer. 

Late that afternoon, almost evening, he lets himself into the shop before he goes upstairs to his apartment. It’s Sunday, so the shop won’t be open for business, but there’s a few good hours left in the day to catch up on projects. And cleaning. He wipes down the glass cases with a rag while he decides what to focus on first. Mr. Bartlett’s radio still needs a lot of work. He’s cleaned it up and put it back together, but it’s not working. Keith’s next thought is to replace some of the wiring. 

He’s thinking about that, and where his soldering gun might be, when he hears someone at the front door. It’s gated, since the store is closed, but the metal gate has gaps between the slats, almost like a checkerboard pattern. And through the holes, he sees the cat. 

Keith grabs his keys. He unbolts the door, lifts the gate— the black and white cat strolls in. 

“We’re closed,” Keith tells it. 

The cat watches him as he finds his supplies and begins working on the radio again. She— because the cat is a she, turns out— even joins him in the work. She winds her way through the antiques that need pricing, a wardrobe in which Keith needs to replace one of the drawers. And then the cat jumps up on the shelves next to the workbench so that she can look down and monitor his progress. 

“I have a dog,” Keith tells the cat, when the animal follows him out the back door of the shop and up the stairs to his apartment. 

But Toni doesn’t seem to mind, as long as she gets her kibble and her place next to Keith’s feet on the couch is not usurped. The cat is content to make a perch on the back of Keith’s chair, and watch him with solemn gray eyes. 

Keith finds his grocery list on the kitchen counter and, resigned, adds kitty litter and cat food to the bottom. 

vi.

“You got a haircut.”

Keith freezes, one arm halfway out of his coat sleeve. It’s the brown one with the plaid lining, the one that doesn’t match anything else he owns, but is too practical to get rid of. He pulls it off his other arm and holds it tight to his chest. Shakes his head. 

“Not recently?” 

Shiro frowns. 

Not more than 48 hours have passed since they last spent time together. 

Shiro is sitting on the small couch in his room, one leg folded underneath him. His shirt is rumpled— he might have been napping and woken up just before Keith arrived. 

“See for yourself.” 

Keith dips forward and doesn’t shiver when curious fingers tangle in the hair at the back of his neck. Shiro’s palm feels large on the back of his skull as his fingers fist, gentle, into Keith’s hair, and then relax. He pulls them free, expression thoughtful. Keith watches through his bangs as he straightens up. 

“Been like that for awhile,” he smiles, apologetic. 

Shiro smiles back, tightness between his brows crumbling to an open kind of trust. “Huh. I must’ve… gotten mixed up.” 

Keith settles onto the couch beside Shiro. 

There’s a window across the room and one of the groundskeepers is raking up leaves, now that the snow has all melted and no more is likely to fall. It still looks gray outside. 

“How were you picturing it?” Keith asks. He’s genuinely curious. For all the time he’s known Shiro, his hair has always been in this moppish sort of non-style. The polar opposite of Shiro’s high maintenance undercut. 

“Long.” Shiro says, absent minded. He’s looking towards the window, out onto the grounds. But he’s not watching the dead leaves getting shoveled into bags. He’s somewhere far away. 

Keith makes a questioning noise. 

“Long enough to braid,” Shiro says, slow. “Sometimes, when we…” He trails off. “That can’t be right.” He mutters it more to himself than Keith. He gets up and crosses the small room to pull one of the notebooks out of a stack on his bedside table. Flips through it, scanning the words. 

His jaw is tight. His shoulders tense. 

Keith gets up as well, following him. He lays a hand, light, against Shiro’s shoulder blade. “Shiro.” 

Clearly frustrated, Shiro closes the notebook. He sinks to the bed, head in his hand. 

“Shiro, it’s okay.” Keith tries to soothe. He sits down next to him, rubbing a hand up and down Shiro’s back. Shiro rarely displays this kind of frustration, but Keith has long been under the impression that just because Shiro doesn’t share it, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. 

“I’m not getting any better, Keith,” Shiro tells his lap. He doesn’t say it in a dramatic way. As much as Shiro loves gallows humor, he’s not ever been one for theatrics. This is just. Just tired. Resigned. Something, maybe, that he’s told himself over and over again. “If.” Shiro looks at Keith sideways, the grayblue of his eyes hard. “If I start declining, I need you to stop—” 

“Patient.” Keith interrupts him. Refusing to let Shiro continue with that train of thought. He won’t give up. He’s not going to lose Shiro. “You have to be patient, Shiro.” 

There’s a pause between them. Something pricks at the edge of Keith’s memory and then slips out of reach. More to say, waiting on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t exactly pin it down and the pause lengthens. It feels heavy— like a thick quilt draped over Keith’s shoulders— weighty with time and care and meaning. Shiro studies his face. Keith meets his eyes. 

“You really mean that.” Shiro remarks, but the words don’t seem to fit the pause the way they should. Something is missing. His shoulders drop, letting the weight of the moment roll off. Keith can feel the ripple of muscle beneath his palm. “You,” 

“I’m not going anywhere, Shiro.” Keith says. “For as long as it takes.” 

*

That evening, Keith makes dinner for himself. Smokes more than he should while he watches tv. Some documentary about the wildlife of the Sonoran desert. Huge desert skies, sweeping canyons, redorange earth. The views must be breathtaking in real life, but under tucked in one side of his couch, with a warm dog curled over his lap, Keith falls asleep. He wakes up as the credits start to roll and Toni starts licking his calf— the strip of skin between his sweatpants and socks. He switches off the television. It’s quiet then, too late for much traffic, even on the ever-busy city street. 

Yawning, he gets up—

Stops. 

Mid-yawn, Keith notices that the cat is watching him from the doorway to his bedroom. “What?” Keith asks her. He shuffles over to the kitchen, runs the tap to fill a glass. Even as he drinks, he keeps his eyes on the cat over the rim of the glass. She’s staring. 

“This is why I like dogs,” Keith mutters. He checks to make sure the front door is locked before heading to the bathroom. He undresses, folding his sweatpants and shucking off his tee shirt to throw in with the laundry. He turns the taps on, still strangely aware of the eyes on his back. 

When he lathers his hair, it seems as if it used to be longer than it is. 

vii.

There is a manila envelope in his mailbox. 

The post office is crowded. Keith didn’t expect that— around two-thirty in the afternoon on a Friday, not close to a holiday or anything. But there’s a crowd of people waiting for the counter, and only one postal worker available to help. Others can be seen, in blue uniforms, flitting back and forth with packages in hand, mostly out of sight from the folks waiting in the lobby. Like bees and their pollen, dipping in and out of hive and honeycomb. 

“You in line?” An older man asks Keith, at the same time fixing him with a pointed stare. 

Keith shuts the box away from prying eyes, lifts his chin, grip tightening on the keys in his hand. He sets the man with a heavy look. “No.” 

The man shuffles away, and Keith swings the door open to his mailbox again. He peeks over his shoulder to be sure that no one else is paying attention to him. They aren’t. 

The envelope is too large to lay flat, instead it cuts a diagonal across the box. There’s a small stack of bills piled in the triangle of space underneath it. Keith sticks these in the breast pocket of his jacket and then goes for the large envelope. It’s thick enough that it takes a decent grip to pull it free. Heavy. 

He tucks it under one arm, shoves his hands in his pockets, walks out of the post office. Breathes in deep when he gets outside. He resists the urge to sit down on the curb right there and open it up. Instead he walks, shoulders hunched against the cold, steps heavy as his legs find their way back to the pawn shop. 

When he arrives, there’s a gaggle of teenage girls looking at the display in the front window. Probably on their way home from school, though the nearest high school is a good eight blocks away. Keith has the window done up real nice— a mid-century modern chair and ottoman set, a record player, a vintage jean jacket. Stuff that will sell fast. The girls fall silent as he approaches, watch him as he walks past the entrance and duck into the alley to get to the back. He hears them resume their conversation as soon as he’s out of sight, volume rising to a crescendo of exclamations and laughter, like friends do. He should open back up for the afternoon. They’d likely buy something. 

He does not. 

He climbs the stairs to his apartment. Unlocks the door and tells himself that his hands are not shaking, even as it takes an extra moment to match key and keyhole. 

Keith takes the envelope inside, sets it on his kitchen counter. 

He was expecting it. 

Keith lights a cigarette. Flicks his pocket knife open. The blade slides through the top edge of the envelope. He withdraws the stack of papers from within. 

CONFIDENTIAL 

This communication and any attachments may contain confidential and/or privileged information for the use of the designated recipients named above. If you are not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that you have received this communication in error and that any review, disclosure, dissemination, distribution or copying of it or its contents is prohibited. If you have received this communication in error, please notify the sender immediately by email or telephone and destroy all copies of this communication and any attachments.

CONFIDENTIAL

Behind the cover sheet, there is a letter, dated about a month and a half prior. Keith was generous regarding the deadline; he didn’t want the man to be rushed in any way. 

The letter reads: 

Mr. Kogane, 

Once again, I would like to convey my deepest gratitude for the opportunity to work on a case such as this. Seldom in my twenty-three year career as a private investigator have I begun with information so recondite and been met with such a wide variety of challenges. I hope you will find the results satisfactory and, indeed, thorough; although the premise of the investigation remained vague, I myself believe that your intention will, in fact, be fully realized upon inspection of the contents herein. 

Summarily: 

As you well know, Japan’s civil registration system is largely location related. Therefore, having neither the place of family origin, nor the exact year of birth creates a wide margin of error at the onset. However, given the range of dates that you provided, as well as the relative rarity of the surname “Shirogane,” it is my opinion that, to put it in colloquial English, we have indeed ‘found our guy.’ Should this be the case, 

Shirogane Takashi was born in 1985 on the 29th of February to parents Kaito and Yua (see enclosed addenda marked a1-6 for admissible documents related to this point, in this case, the Shirogane  _ Koseki Touhon _ , or family registry) in the Yamaguchi Prefecture. No siblings are documented. His mother, unfortunately, passed away from poor health (b1-2, AMS, unspecified) just weeks before his third birthday. Thereafter, he was likely raised almost solely by his grandfather, Shirogane Touma, seeing as his father was a highly ranked officer of the Japan Air Self Defense Force (c1-7). No doubt he had plans for his son to follow in his footsteps (d1, d2-3); however, that was not to be the case. At age seven, Takashi was first hospitalized (e1), though his exact symptoms at that time are unclear. Regardless, medical records (f1-17, g1-5, h1-34, i1-3), tell us that his hospitalizations became increasingly frequent with age. At twelve, he was officially diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a rare degenerative disease affecting musculature, and a diagnosis almost unheard of in a patient his age (j1-8). Treatment was aggressive, per his father’s direction (k1-2). He was immediately enrolled in a promising case study at the National Center for Child Health and Development in Tokyo, a facility which boasts one of the most robust treatment and research centers in Japan, specializing in developing innovative treatment and research methods in a huge variety of pediatric fields (k3). There is no evidence to suggest that he ever left that hospital. 

His death certificate states the time of death as 23:35 on the 31st of December, 1999. He was fourteen years old (l1). His remains are interred at the family grave, also in the Yamaguchi prefecture (m1, m2). 

It has been over a year since you first hired me, Mr. Kogane. I thought it only fitting that I pay my respects to the individual who has been the subject of many hours of work on my part. You will find the personal photos I took at that time also included in this document (n1-2). In my opinion, it is a very beautiful cemetery. 

Shirogane Takashi would have been thirty-five this year. I will not speculate as to your connection with him, but it is my greatest hope that this investigation will bring you the closure you are seeking. 

Once again, I thank you for the opportunity. You have been a pleasant client with whom to collaborate, and I hope you will consider me for any future work you might need in this capacity. 

Regards, 

David Takahashi 

The private investigator’s signature is a scrawl of blue ink beneath the typeset. 

Letter in hand, Keith takes a step back. His kitchen is narrow, just two steps and his back is pressed against the wall. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, squeezes them tight. His heart is beating so fast. 

_ Shiro.  _

It can’t be true. 

Keith stands up, moves to pick up the forgotten cigarette to find that it has turned to ash in the tray. He lights another, begins shuffling through the considerable stack of evidence enclosed. Much of it is in the original Japanese, with the investigator’s translation closely annotated. _ It can’t be true.  _

There’s a photo. A young boy, in school uniform. He’s standing outside, in front of a name placard as if in front of a gated estate. He’s smiling. Keith flips the photo over. ‘Shirogane Takashi, age ten,’ is written on the back. 

Keith flips the photo back over, studying it, his hand now over his mouth, his heart in his throat. It’s him. His jaw is less filled out, and he’s slender— not yet the broad shoulders and devastatingly handsome man that Keith knows— but. The smile is the same. Boyish and sweet, with just the slightest hint of irreverence tucked in around the edges. The way one eyebrow is slightly more arched than the other, the way his ears stick out just enough to be charming, the sweep of his hair— it’s him. It’s Shiro. 

There are other photos, Keith finds, perhaps even more telling. Several in which Shiro is older, health clearly in decline. Keith thinks of the man he knows with dark humor and endless strength and can only imagine how hard it must have been. There’s one of Shiro’s father. Keith swallows. The resemblance to  _ his _ Shiro is uncanny. Shiro has grown up to look just like his father. Except for, according to this, he didn’t. 

He stops when he gets to the pictures that the investigator took of the grave. It’s too much. 

Keith trusts Shiro. 

There’s something he’s missing. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my friends pls note that I did not tag 'major character death.' I wouldn't do that to you. I don't want to give away any of the fun bits of the story, but dw! shiro as we know him and keith are both very much alive, and will remain so lol 
> 
> thank you for reading!! its a slow start, romance wise, but I hope you are still enjoying it :>


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (waves) hi hello how are you? Thank you very much for being so patient with me and the third chapter of this fic. I feel like the response I’ve gotten so far to the first two chapters has been really phenomenal, and I’m so happy. Did you know I actually started writing this fic in april of 2020? I will absolutely not abandon it, but now that I’m finished with fandom events (for now) and this is my main priority, the chapters should be coming more quickly. 
> 
> One soft warning for this chapter: the hurt/comfort tag was added. There is a brief mention of prescription drugs being used in what we can assume was against shiro’s will while he was hospitalized. I don't want to catch anyone by surprise if that's upsetting to you, so please take care. 
> 
> with all that being said, I hope you enjoy:

vii.

  


GRAND OPENING, reads the fold-out sign sat square in the middle of the sidewalk. Underneath the bright lettering, there’s a chalkboard illustration of a coffee cup, steam rising from the brim in pale blue dust. Keith pauses with the sign in front of him, chewing on a hangnail as he circles it to read the same message on the opposite side. He’s a few blocks away from his normal routine; typically, he has no reason to walk down this street, and so it might as well be on the other side of the world instead of just a few moment’s walk away. He hadn’t even known the old Moore building was being renovated into something new. The new owner kept the original stained glass above the door— that’s good. He might not have realized this place was open for a long time, unless he read it in the local paper or heard about it from a customer. Except. Today, he’d been walking back home and there was unexpected construction on 23rd— a water line broke under the asphalt, some kind of emergency— so he was forced to take an alternate route back to his shop. 

  


Keith peeks in the windows. 

  


He normally doesn’t care for coffeehouses— the overpriced drinks, the crowds, the rush— but. Today. Coffee might be nice. And he’d like to see if they kept the original Harlequin tile on the floors. Without questioning the whim, he takes guidance from the sign urging him to stop in, and slips inside. 

  


Black and white checkered tile, freshly waxed, greets him. They did keep the original flooring. 

  


There’s not much of a line, but that’s likely because it’s later in the day. Freshly ground coffee hangs decadent in the air. Keith pulls his gray scarf down from his neck, inhaling the warm smell, relishing the way feeling comes back into his cold cheeks. The far wall has a map of the world covering it, almost ceiling to floor. There’s a step ladder and a small jar of red push-pins next to a guest book at the side. The idea being, Keith supposes, that customers are meant to mark where they’re from. Just a few red dots are on the map already, most of them within city limits, and Keith wonders if the coffee shop’s owners aren’t overly optimistic. Seems like most people around here stay close to home. 

  


Just one person ahead of him now, and Keith redirects his attention from the map (the state in which he was born has no pin, but is he really from there when he’s not been back for so long? He pictures the pins he could place: across three states, five school districts, all before he left the system at eighteen, but none of them really home,) he redirects his attention from the map to the woman in front of him in line. 

  


The woman in front of him is beautiful. Tall and slim, but athletic looking rather than willowy. The modern clothes she’s wearing— tailored black slacks, a bright pink top that seems designer— contrast so sharply with the cafe’s attempt at a vintage aesthetic that it’s almost jarring. Keith notes that her strappy heels look uncomfortable, even though she moves gracefully in them. Bad choice for the weather though. ‘Supposed to sleet later on tonight, if the forecast is right. He looks up at the menu above the twin whirring and trickling coffee machines. Frowns. Too many options, all of them a couple bucks more expensive than they should be. 

  


“Oh, I wonder. Hm.” The woman ahead of Keith waffles. “Tell me: does it have milk?” 

  


The barista looks tired. Her apron is stained and there’s a band-aid wrapped around her index finger. It’s afternoon-going-on-evening so she’s probably nearing the end of her shift. “Yes, hun. A latte has milk.” She adds: “We could make it with soy milk instead.”

  


“Soy? Oh I suppose….that’s not a cow, then?” 

  


“No, soy is not a cow.” 

  


“Wonderful! Yes, give me that!” The woman in front of Keith makes as if to move out of the way. 

  


“Hun, you still need to pay.” 

  


The woman freezes. “Pay?” She touches her clothes, obviously not even close to finding any form of payment. The bracelets on her wrists tinkle with the hand wringing. “Oh—”

  


“I got it,” Keith moves forward, handing the barista his beat-to-death debit card. “Add on a medium coffee, room for cream.” 

  


The barista completes the transaction, but the woman hovers close to Keith while they wait for their drinks. 

  


“Thank you,” she says, smile genuine. Warm. Her heels clack against the black and white. She clasps her hands and her bracelets clink. 

  


“Don’t mention it,” Keith replies, expecting the interaction to end there. 

  


It doesn’t. Keith gets his coffee, flicks off the lid, aware that the woman is watching him. He rips off the top of four sugars at once, dumps them in, and then adds a generous amount of cream. Puts the lid back on. 

  


“What?” he asks, not quite snapping. The woman is staring at him. Her eyes are such a bright blue, she must be wearing the kind of contacts that hide the eye’s natural color. The effect is unnerving. He half turns, breaking eye contact. “Look, don’t worry about your coffee. It’s fine.” 

  


She blinks, sparkly drop earrings shimmering through her silvery hair as her expression shifts. 

  


“So strange.” She mutters, tilting her head, and then more clearly: “Excuse my behavior, it’s just strange to see you like this.” 

  


_ What the fuck,  _ Keith thinks. “Do I know you?” 

  


“Oh quiznack.” The woman smiles and it looks panicked now. She has a lilting accent that comes out more clearly as she scrambles. “Yes, of course. Purely acquaintances, that’s all. We went to, oh yes, we went to school together!” 

  


“Horseshit.” Keith went to school a long way away from here, with almost exclusively other poor, white kids. This woman is black, remarkably beautiful, and most strikingly: seemingly very rich. Too rich to remember money for coffee. He’d know if he met her before. 

  


“Soy latte,” the barista calls, but the woman doesn’t seem to register that her order is ready. 

  


Instead, she leans even closer to Keith, 

  


“Thank you,” the woman says, touching Keith’s hand. “For everything you’re doing.” She says it quietly, weighty. With a breath at the end, like she wants to say more but can’t. 

  


_ What the fuck, _ Keith decides, pulling away. “Sure thing,” he mutters. He pushes past her to leave the shop. 

  


The coffee is good enough to return, Keith decides, but he likely won’t have reason to be by this way again. 

  


viii. 

  


There’s a billiards table in the rec room on the lower level of the facility. Though the two levels are connected by only a moment’s drop, when Keith follows Shiro off the elevator, he feels as though they might as well be worlds away from the whitewashed walls and the medical equipment on the floor above. 

  


A plush red area rug shows evidence of recent vacuuming. Keith toes the edge of it, mindful of his boots. On the far wall, there’s a big screen television entertaining itself— muted, FOX news anchors spitting silence— in front of arm chairs that haven’t changed their shape enough to have cradled a body for any amount of time. They look brand new. Beyond these, past a set of shining end tables, dotted with magazines and a floral arrangement, the space gives way to a bar area— marble countertops, sparkling clean. Were this a country club, the smart looking cabinets might be stocked with liquor. As is, the masquerade is broken by a Keurig machine and a phone that connects to the nurse’s station above. 

  


Not for the first time, Keith wonders who is footing the bill for Shiro’s residence at this place. He rocks back on his heels, doesn’t give voice to the question. Just like he hasn’t found the balls to talk to Shiro about the contents of the manila envelope. He says instead, arm crossed and fingers buried in his armpits, “Not too crowded, huh?” 

  


Shiro laughs, the sound of it light and carrying across the empty room. “No. Never. Don’t see why.” He takes down a pool stick from a rack mounted on the wall closest to the billiards table. “You play?” 

  


Keith joins him at the table, interest sparking into excitement like flint to flame. “I’ve played,” he allows. His experience with shooting pool is limited, but for Shiro, he’d become an expert. 

  


He catches the cue that Shiro tosses to him. Raises his eyebrows at Shiro’s smirk. 

  


“Good,” Shiro says. “Otherwise this won’t be much fun.” 

  


“That so?” Keith asks, watching with interest as Shiro squares up the balls on the table. They roll in unison within their triangle prison; the sound it makes is uniquely satisfying— rich and thick and rumbly on the felt— but it’s the devious edge to Shiro’s smile that makes a shiver run up Keith’s back. 

  


Shiro nods, now holding the cue steady by pressing it between his hip and the table. He uses the square of chalk on the tip. “Afterall,” he says lightly, mischief creeping into his dry tone, “I’m already going to beat you with one tied behind my back.” 

  


“Shiro.” 

  


Shiro winks at him, sets the cue ball down opposite the racked up balls. “You break.” 

  


Mindful of Shiro’s eyes on him, Keith lines up the cue stick; the cue ball smacks the triangle apart with a satisfying crack, and the solids and stripes go spinning out across the green felt. 

  


“Hmmm,” Shiro hums. 

  


“What?” Keith asks, straightening up. 

  


“You’ve  _ played _ ,” Shiro agrees. 

  


“What’s that supposed to mean?” Keith grumbles. 

  


Shiro responds with a noncommittal lift of his brows, then motions for Keith to join him with a jut of his chin. “My bridge hand is gone, so you’ll be working overtime.” He has Keith stand at the edge of the table, calls the ball he’s going to pocket. 

  


Keith manages to hide the hitch in his breath as he feels Shiro’s body settle directly behind his. Shiro gently pushes him over the table, adjusting Keith’s right hand the way he wants it for the bridge. His hips are pushed behind Keith’s. His chest is against Keith’s back. 

  


“Stance wide, head over the cue,” Shiro says, breath warm on Keith’s temple. Voice heavy in Keith’s ear. He balances the tip end of his cue stick on Keith’s right hand, readying the shot. “Steady, Keith.” 

  


His mouth dry, Keith stands stock still, acting as Shiro’s bridge hand. With a jolt of motion against him, Shiro shoots: the cue hits the cue ball clean and hard— then it stops. The purple four, the ball he called, flies into the corner pocket. 

  


He straightens up. 

  


Keith’s heart is hammering in his chest. “N-nice,” he manages. He can still feel all the places where Shiro was pressed against him. He swallows, hoping the motion isn’t obvious, hoping the heat in his face isn’t bright red on his skin. 

  


The next shot is Shiro’s as well. He moves to the other side of the table, aiming now in a different direction. “I’m solids, then. One,” he points, “In that side pocket.” 

  


It looks like an overly difficult shot to Keith. Shiro is either trying to show off or just damn good at pool. The idea must show on his face because Shiro grins at him. “C’mere,” he says. 

  


“Pool is just physics,” he says, leaning again over Keith. Close, so deliciously close. Keith feels heady with it when Shiro bends him over the table, moving Keith how he likes.  _ For the shot, _ Keith reminds himself, pulse hammering in his ears. Shiro’s hand is impossibly big. 

  


“Physics and math,” Shiro tells him. Keith can feel the bunch of his muscles, the controlled strength as he handles the cue stick and thrusts it forward. The yellow solid ball, numbered one, sinks perfectly into the side pocket. “And practice.” 

  


“Practice, I can do. Math, not so much,” Keith mutters. 

  


Shiro grins at that. He lines up the next shot, explaining exactly where to hit the cue ball to get the spin that he wants. How to set up the shot— to aim just short of the object ball, not exactly in the same spot. He is so close that Keith can  _ feel _ the words. His controlled exhale over Keith’s neck as he concentrates is the sweetest torture. He moves the cue, but. 

  


The white cue ball spins wildly over the table, completely missing the shot. 

  


Due entirely to the fact that Keith flattened his bridge hand just as Shiro was shooting. Sabotage.

  


He can feel Shiro stiffen over top of him. “Keith,” he rumbles, threatening on anger. “That was cheating.” 

  


Keith turns around, still caught between his waist and the table, but now chest-to-chest with Shiro. This close, the size difference between them is profound. Keith wets his lips. 

  


“Cheating?” he asks, lifting his chin. “No, Shiro. That was engineering a tactical advantage.” 

  


Shiro huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, devastating and handsome all at once. “Cheating will get you nowhere,” he maintains. 

  


Keith shrugs. He slips free of Shiro and circles the table. Practiced or not, Keith doesn’t like to lose. At anything. 

  


“Got me that,” he says, sinking the first striped ball into a pocket. He pops one hip up onto the table, leaning over the green felt, and pockets another ball. “And that,” 

  


“You’re— Keith.” Shiro shakes his head. “Really.” He’s suppressing a smile. 

  


Keith barks out a laugh. His only billiards teachers prior to this have been innate ability, a little luck, and a lot of alcohol. But he’s a quick learner, and Shiro’s explanations just now were thorough. Keith sinks another ball and Shiro murmurs approval. He’s leaning with the cue stick in hand, shoulders relaxed, but his gaze is tight. He’s watching Keith like he’s hungry. He wants to win. 

  


Keith gets overconfident, drunk now on Shiro’s attention. He tries something more complicated— similar to the move that Shiro pulled off for the second ball— and ends up missing entirely. He swears and Shiro looks so satisfied that the loss is almost worth it. 

  


And. As competitive as Keith is, it doesn’t feel like much of a loss when Shiro’s turn returns them to that excruciating closeness. His weight pressing Keith into the table. Shiro jostles Keith, pushing him down as he arranges Keith’s fingers just so. “No cheating this time,” he whispers against the shell of Keith’s ear.

  


Heat unfurls deep in Keith’s gut at the sensation— so much so that his eyes fall shut and he has to make a concentrated effort to keep himself in check. He’s half hard in his jeans, has been since Shiro first practically pinned him against the table. The clack of resin against resin and the sound of the balls rolling across the felt shouldn’t be erotic, but the thrumming in his veins disagrees. 

  


Shiro makes the shot, of course he does. 

  


“D-don’t people shoot with their dominant hand?” Keith says, just to say something, as they change their position. Shiro is laid over his back, trying to set up the right angle for the blue two ball and the left corner, and all Keith can process is  _ friction, friction friction, _ and how much he needs it. He inhales, says in a rush,“I thought you weren’t a lefty.” 

  


“Mm.” 

  


Keith tilts his head just slightly to the side, watching concentration sharpen Shiro’s features from handsome to elegant. The square of his jaw and the weight of his brow are marble-worthy. Keith is captured. 

  


Shiro moves; the ball disappears into the pocket. His satisfied smile is subtle enough to be devastating. He steps away from Keith to retrieve the cube of chalk from the head of the table. 

  


“Adam was left handed. I learned from him.” 

  


It takes a moment for Keith to add Shiro’s response to his question; the words drift all mismatched until he manages to knit them into something that makes sense. “Adam?” 

  


With a bit of effort, Shiro rechalks the tip of his cue stick. “The two of us used to play several times a week, for years.” 

  


“A friend?” Keith asks, keeping his voice low, his gaze down. It’s so rare that Shiro is able to remember something from his past. This is the first name that Shiro has shared without tremendous effort. It feels like a spell he shouldn’t break. 

  


“Fiancé.” Shiro corrects. 

  


The word is a brick. The way it drops, heavy, the way it sinks. The way it hurts. 

  


Keith inhales. Audibly inhales. The feeling— jealousy— hits him like a punch to the gut, harsh and sudden and like nothing he’s ever experienced before. He thought he had, but no. This blankets over his shoulders, crawls up his throat, wicks away every other emotion in an instant. 

  


Shiro doesn’t notice. “We played all the time,” he continues, eyes on the green felt, but far away too, not seeing it, “Though. I never played against him, always two-on-two. If we played each other, we'd fight and end up not talking for days.” He laughs, a rough sound. 

  


“Shiro. Could he be looking for you?” Keith asks the question, quiet. His heart is pounding. 

  


The chalk leaves a cloud of dust in the air as Shiro gently taps the butt of his cue stick against the plush red rug. “No.” He says short. 

  


“I would—” Keith argues, because that makes no sense. Because, if Shiro was out there, he would never stop looking, he would  _ never, _

  


“No. No, I’m sure of that. We broke up,” Shiro smiles, “He dumped me,” the smile disappears just as fast, leaves something sour in its wake, “but more than that. I’m...not sure. I can’t remember. But, Keith. I think he passed away.” 

  


Jealousy drains into emptiness— leaving just as fast as it came. “I’m. I’m so sorry, Shiro.” 

  


Shiro makes a frustrated noise. He runs a hand through his hair, forgetting the cue stick. It clatters to the ground. Keith moves to pick it up, but hesitates when Shiro bends down. 

  


He pauses a moment, and Keith gives him that. When he straightens up, the frustration is gone— tucked back wherever he keeps it. Shiro is seldom awkward, but the way he clears his throat now borders on floundering. “The eight-ball is still on the table,” he comments. 

  


Keith says, automatic: “Until I win.” 

  


“Oh yeah?” Shiro moves closer as if they are going to set up another shot together. Except. Instead he abruptly hip checks Keith— forceful enough that Keith stumbles. 

  


“Dude!” Keith stumbles to the side, laughing, “Shiro!” 

  


“What was it, Keith? A ‘tactical advantage’?” 

  


(And.

  


Keith would do  _ anything _ to capture the bright laughter in Shiro’s eyes just then, he thinks. His heart is in his throat with so many emotions. He ducks his head, only to find a moment later that Shiro is still looking at him. Like that.) 

  


Keith grumbles, but there’s no heat to it. His mouth works around a smile. “Yessir.” He positions himself over the table, calling the shot he’s going to take. “And I’m counting that as a foul. My turn again.” 

  


Shiro looks amused. “I won’t argue with that. Go ahead, tactical.” 

  


_ What the hell, _ Keith thinks, because a nickname like that shouldn’t be cute. A single word shouldn’t be that powerful, just by virtue of coming from Shiro’s mouth. He chews his lip, focuses on the shot, and he hopes that his hair is messy enough to cover the flush he feels over his neck, the tops of his ears. 

  


He ends up losing the game. They play another. He loses again, but it’s a closer match the second time. 

  


ix.

  


The cashier at the 24 hour Stop-N-Go doesn’t look up from his phone when Keith walks through the door. The air smells stale— somehow rubber and wet cardboard and the soft serve machine in the corner all mixed into one. It’s a familiar smell. The cooler hums, the glass door sticks until it doesn’t. Keith reaches into the cold and retrieves a six pack of Coors Light. Bottles, because they can never keep the damn cans in stock. 

  


He sets them on the counter. The cashier— it’s the owner’s son today, not the owner himself— punches in the beer and pauses, waiting. Keith adds on two packs of Reds; the register dings. The guy goes back to his phone before Keith is even out the door. 

  


The convenience store is just a block up from Keith’s shop. He sets down the beers to tuck the cigarettes into his pocket, and then begins walking. He’s not heading home. 

  


The river is ‘bout a mile-and-a-half aways, but it’s a quiet walk. Quieter still, once he’s reached the water and is walking along the concrete bank. The graffiti along the bridge is indecipherable, just swirls of red and black. A girl passes him, running in leggings and a crop top, rebellion against the chill in the air. Her music is loud enough in her headphones that, just for a moment, he catches the suggestion of bass over the lull of traffic and the dark water below. 

  


The other side of the river gives way to a residential area, less urban. Keith turns down a side street without truly watching where he’s headed. Idly stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk, taking care not to trip where the concrete is uneven. These streets are old. There’s an elementary school in about ten minutes time at this pace. He lifts his wrist to check his watch out of habit. 

  


He could take his bike. Sure it’d be faster. His palm wouldn’t get that red mark across it from the cardboard container cutting in. But the kickback from his bike is loud, the motor roars. It feels wrong to be loud here. The chain on the automated gate clinks in the wind, greeting him. It feels like that’s the only sound for miles and miles. 

  


Keith shakes out a cigarette and lights it, setting down the six pack for a moment to curl his palm around the flame of his lighter. Breathes in the comfort. Exhales a cloud. Then, he begins walking up the hill towards his dad’s plot. 

  


The place where his dad is buried is non-descript. Keith hasn’t spent a lot of time in other cemeteries, but this one seems alright. There’s a sugar maple off in the one corner, and some of the rows aren’t exactly straight. He likes that. His pop’s headstone is the kind that’s just a plaque on the ground. It takes him a moment to find it. It always seems further than he remembers. And then it turns up all at once. 

  


The word “Hero” is emblazoned above his dad’s name, like that’s what people called him. As far as Keith knows, everyone just called him Tex. There’s a maltese cross under the lettering and the dates. Firefighter’s cross. It’s supposed to be a symbol of sacrifice, something that means  _ ‘I’ll protect you at all costs.’  _

  


He flicks his pocket knife open. Uses the blunt edge of the blade to dislodge cap from bottle. The cap falls, disappearing into dead, brown grass. 

  


“Hey, dad.” 

  


He tips the bottle back against his lips. His mouth works even after he swallows. He sits. 

  


The headstone is to his right. Keith sets the bottle down on the granite plaque. Traces the engraved letters with his fingertip. Lights another cigarette. 

  


Looks out over the quiet expanse of land, the mismatched headstones, the way some are tipped, some are weatherworn. He can’t see the river from here, but the city’s modest skyline cuts into the gray sky. He clunks his boots together, dislodging the heavy silence. 

  


He’s thinking about the detective and how he said that the cemetery that he visited was ‘beautiful.’ Keith has one of the photos he sent— not of the graves, it’s of Shiro as a kid, bright eyed— tucked into his wallet right now. He’s been carrying it around. 

  


He’s thinking about Shiro. 

  


The second bottlecap clinks as it hits the stone, rolls, and settles, spinning to a stop. 

  


Keith used to hate this place. All of it. 

  


It made no sense for his pop to be buried here. It’s not the family plot— Keith’s grandparents are buried somewhere in Texas, he doesn’t know exactly where— but he doesn’t just mean the cemetery. The city itself is wrong. It’s not even close to where Keith grew up. It’s not where they lived together when he was a kid. On the other side of the country, practically. His dad died when he was eight, a  _ sacrifice _ that saved someone else’s life at exactly the same time that it collapsed Keith’s. But the fact that he wanted to be laid to rest in a place that Keith had never even heard of? Insult to injury. Abandoned, two-fold. 

  


Keith clicks his tongue, rolling the taste of cheap beer and old anger back and forth in his mouth. 

  


At eighteen, he was gifted context for the decision. This is his mom’s hometown. Well,  _ was _ his mom’s hometown. She had a pawn shop before she had a child. When she died, she left it to him. 

  


He hated for things not to make sense. He hated the explanation more. 

  


Dad wasn’t the kind of man who was supposed to be sentimental. Not the kind of man who would throw his life away in the line of duty for some grand ideal. Not the kind of man who would want to be buried in the town where he met the love of his life. 

  


Keith breaks the silence:

  


“Met a guy.” 

  


It’s stupid. Because Keith. Keith is not the kind of man who’s supposed to be sentimental either. He’s carved out a place for himself, made boundaries and drawn lines. Kept himself safe. Sentimentality is putting flowers on a grave— to use one of his pop’s expressions, ‘ _ bout as useful as tits on a bull.  _ Keith pulls his knees up and rests his forehead against them. 

  


“Hard to admit,” he mutters against his jeans. He’s not supposed to feel this young. “But I wish you were here. Met him too.” 

  


The breath he takes is shaky. 

  


His dad, from what he remembers, was a good judge of character. No frills, but. The type of man who always knew what to do. Trustworthy. Kind. Keith spent a long time rejecting guidance from other folks, but now, he wishes he could come by it honest. It’s been just over a year since he met Shiro, but he’s never been so happy. And so unsure. 

  


“I just know I’m gonna fuck this up.” Keith confides to the open air. The sun is setting now, lighting the sky up all orange and pink. Turns out, it’s terrifying, letting people in. Turns out, the most terrifying thing in the world is letting them go once you have. 

  


Keith uses his thumb to push a third bottle cap into the ground. The earth is hard. It barely makes a dent. 

  


“I don’t have anything else to say,” Keith admits, mouth screwed halfway to a smile before bottle meets lips. His eyes are dry, but he rubs a thumb over them anyways. He walked all the way here. He tips the bottle back. Less to carry on the way home. 

  


Distantly, he can hear the clank of the chain on the gate at the bottom of the hill. 

  


There’s a crunch. 

  


For a moment, he thinks he hears the sound of footsteps. Keith twists, looking behind him. No one. He hears the sound again, and turns back the way he was facing, out over the hill. But when he pauses, holding his breath to listen, there’s nothing. 

  


He blows out the breath a moment later, feeling stupid. Spooked in a graveyard. Really? 

  


The beer is getting warm and his ass is getting cold. He thinks about leaving the rest of the bottles on his dad’s plaque, as some kind of symbol or gift, but there’s a homeless guy under the bridge who will enjoy it more if Keith doesn’t feel like carrying them. 

  


He stands on unsteady legs, takes a breath. Instead of saying goodbye, he bends down, touching the letters. Pressing them into his fingertips, trying to remember the exact way that Pops said his name. 

  


His voice isn’t wet, but he means it deep when he says: “Miss you. Still.” 

  


Something stirs behind him. 

  


Keith straightens up. The sugar maple— branches like bare bones clawing upwards into the sky— sways in the wind. 

  


No. Not the wind. 

  


He swears under his breath. “You gotta be kidding me.” 

  


It’s the cat. The damn cat. It can’t be the _ same damn cat _ , but it is. He gets closer. The animal is above his head, stuck. 

  


“Serves you right, for spying.” Keith tells it, serious. She mewls in placation. “No way. You got yourself up there.” 

  


Keith stamps the feeling back into his feet, gone needle-y from sitting on the ground for so long. He finishes off the bottle, tucks it back into the cardboard empty. Watches the cat make very little effort to climb down. 

  


“Alright.” Keith grumbles. “Fine.” 

  


With a jump, he manages to grab hold of one of the lower branches, hike himself up. The cat is still high overhead. He swings himself higher. “C’mere,” Keith coaxes. 

  


It doesn’t move. 

  


Keith swears again. He’s about to tell the cat that he’ll just leave her here if she doesn’t at least  _ try, _ when he hears the sound again. Not exactly a crunch, not loud enough to be clear footsteps. The breaking of brittle grass. The hollow sound of cold earth. 

  


He twists, clinging to the tree, to figure out the origin of the sound. He sees no one. 

  


Abruptly the cat jumps over him, scrambling down the tree trunk. Keith scrambles after her, managing to land all in one piece. 

  


It  _ is _ the same cat that’s been following him. He can tell by the way she rubs against his calves, and the markings on her face. Her nose is black with white on either side. She doesn’t fuss when he picks her up, stuffing her in the front of his jacket. He zips it up halfway so that she can look out, but she’ll stay warm against his chest. The walk home is long and even though she’s some kind of ridiculous teleporting cat that defies logic, he can’t just leave her here. She settles in, seemingly content to be carried. 

  


“Good kitty,” he says, satisfied. 

  


He hasn’t told Shiro about the strange cat yet. As he begins his walk home, he thinks that maybe it’s a story that Shiro would like to hear. 

  


x.

  


When Darlene tells him that it’s a bad day, Keith takes off at a run towards Shiro’s room. 

  


Shiro’s door is shut. 

  


“Shit.” Keith runs a hand over his mouth. Unsure. 

  


“Shiro,” Keith calls, first softly and then louder. He’s out of breath from the sprint, blood pumping in his ears, chest tight. He calls again, knocks against the doorframe. Shiro’s across-the-hall neighbor, a lady in her late eighties named June, pokes her head out of her door. Keith doesn’t notice.

  


“Shiro,” Keith wants to be heard, but he doesn’t want to startle him. “It’s me, Keith. I’m coming in.” 

  


The facility doors don’t lock. Keith twists the handle. 

  


The room is... It’s wrong. Keith takes in the curtains pulled wide, the unmade bed, and the notebooks, all of them, torn from the shelves and the desk. Strewn about. Dozens of them, scattered over the floor, like blue and green and red leaves over the ground before a frost. The ones that are open show pages covered in thick, black scrawl, sometimes without regard to the lines at all. It’s ugly. Keith picks one up, closing it. It’s hard to look at. 

  


The bathroom door is shut as well, but yellow fluorescence seeps out from under, as if the door’s been dipped in light. Keith takes a breath, willing his pulse to slow. He wipes his hands on his jeans. Schools his features into calmness. 

  


Keith pushes the bathroom door open. 

  


Shiro is curled up in the shower. One shoulder— his left shoulder— pressed into the wall. Body leaning there, still. His head is bowed, chin tucked to chest. His back is to the door. 

  


Keith makes a soft sound without meaning to. It falls from his mouth, tipping off the spotless sink and the plastic-y white shower stall with the handicap bar. Carrying in the acoustics of the enclosed space. A mourning sound. He takes a step inside, jaw clenched to prevent more from escaping. 

  


Shiro doesn’t stir. He’s in a sleep shirt and boxers. His head remains dipped between his wide shoulders, chin to chest. Knees pulled up. It could be comical, Shiro’s large frame curled so neatly. When standing, the shower is barely adequate for a man of his height. Like this, he’s small. 

  


There’s a cord hanging next to the toilet. A lifeline made of braided acrylic with a plastic piece at the end, giving it weight. There’s a red call button next to the lightswitch. Keith could contact someone. One of the nurses. 

  


He takes another step forward. Quietly pushes the door shut behind him. At the sound, Shiro moves. He curls tighter, like a wince. He has his arm wrapped around himself, half a hug. Fingers digging deep into his right side. Broad shoulders bowed. 

  


The beat of Keith’s heart is painful. People can’t live like this, surely, with this much hurt for someone else inside them. It’s not possible. This will split his sternum, crack him wide open, have him bleeding out into all of the tiny spaces between the tiles where the twice weekly cleaning service just can’t reach.

  


“Shiro,” Keith says, hoarser than he expects. “I’m here.” 

  


“Keith?” Shiro’s voice is soft. As though he didn’t intend for it to be for anyone but himself to hear. As though he doesn’t truly believe that Keith will answer. He curls more tightly into himself. 

  


There’s no drip to the faucets, no hum of lights. Shiro’s tight exhale is barely audible above the stillness, but it’s fracturing. A fissure in something strong. It sounds devastating, spring-weakened ice with deadly currents underneath. 

  


Keith sits on the edge of the shower stall, where the edge is raised to keep the water inside. His back is to Shiro’s back, but he’s positioned to the side: his right shoulder is almost touching Shiro’s right shoulder. He’s hesitant to do anything unwanted; his hands fall useless into his lap. From here he can see the underside of the sink, the way white paint is chipping underneath the edge of the towel bar. The room must have been blue before. 

  


_ ‘Are you alright,’ _ is wrong. Vapid. Keith just sits, watching Shiro’s profile out of the corner of his eye. His toes are palest pink against the textured floor of the shower stall. Shiro’s middle finger is stained with ink. Keith touches it, noticing that Shiro’s hand is cold, much colder than his own. He slips his hand under Shiro’s, palm to palm. 

  


Shiro’s face is angled away. His hand is a dead weight in Keith’s. 

  


"More is coming back," Shiro says. His voice is steady. Dull. 

  


Keith doesn't react. His thumb is over Shiro’s knuckles, stroking a quiet line across his fingers. 

  


"I hurt so many," Shiro says, and this time his voice breaks: “No. Not just hurt. Killed.” 

  


It's not a surprise. Keith has long assumed that Shiro had some kind of military background because of his arm. He must have been a soldier. He must have suffered so much. No doubt that his memory loss is the result of trauma. No doubt that the memories resurfacing is painful beyond measure. No doubt that— 

  


"I tried to kill you," Shiro whispers. 

  


Keith pauses. Shiro’s hand curls into a fist under his own and withdraws. Shiro presses the meat of his palm to his forehead, right between his brows, rocks forward. His shoulders tremble. He’s choking on sobs he won’t let free. 

  


Keith frowns. He doesn't understand. "What do you mean?" 

  


In the beginning, they thought he might be violent. The first time that Shiro had a nightmare in the hospital, they put him in soft restraints. The effect was profound: Shiro fought. He was strong enough to break the first attempt at binding him. Strong enough to permanently bend the metal clip of the restraint of the second attempt. So they used a chemical restraint instead. Drugged him so heavily that he could barely open his eyes to look at Keith. Keith will never forget the time he was there to see the deep intramuscular injection administered, the way Shiro gasped at the needle, eyes wide and fearful and rolling, the way he went limp, the long drag of his heart rate on the monitors afterwards. 

  


The purplegreen bruise on his wrist from the restraints took a long time to fade. The knot in his muscle from the injections even longer. But the fear— 

  


Keith uses one foot to pry the other out of his boot without unlacing it. And then repeats the motion on the other side. He scoots backwards— he can feel the cold of the floor through a hole in the heel of his sock. 

  


The shower stall’s drain is uncomfortable under his ass, but Keith doesn’t care. He makes a space for himself now closer at Shiro’s side, now seated back far enough that instead of being shoulder-to-shoulder, Keith can look into Shiro’s face. 

  


“Shiro.” Keith places a hand on Shiro’s knee, leaning forward towards him. “Look at me.” 

  


Shiro raises his face. His bluegray eyes are dull, lifeless. Red-rimmed and sunken in. He’s unshaven. His lips are bitten raw, mouth set in a line. He doesn’t meet Keith’s eyes, but instead seems to be focused on the side of his face, or maybe looking over his shoulder. 

  


“Shiro,” Keith pleads. 

  


Shiro’s eyes flick to his, and then away. His hand is shaking when he raises it. Keith doesn’t flinch. He’s never been afraid of Shiro. This moment is no exception. The touch that settles over his cheek is so light, it’s like it’s barely there at all. 

  


Shiro’s breath hitches. 

  


He runs a finger down Keith’s cheek, from the the crest of his cheekbone to his jawline. The touch is so soft. So hesitant. Keith watches as Shiro shuts his eyes, breathes out a shaky breath. His brows pull together and he tilts his face up, swallowing. 

  


“I don’t understand.” The words come out like a sob, or maybe a plea. They are torn out of him, and Shiro tips forward, collapsing into Keith. “Keith, I—” 

  


Keith catches him, wrapping his arms around Shiro. The line that Shiro drew down his cheek lingers, like he can still feel the touch. He doesn’t understand either. But he doesn’t need to. He holds Shiro tight, mouth pressed into Shiro’s temple. His skin is clammy. 

  


Shiro inhales against Keith’s neck. “It’s so vivid, Keith.” 

  


“A nightmare,” Keith mouths against his temple. He wants to tilt Shiro’s face up, kiss away every tear that he’s finally letting fall. Instead he just holds him, one hand buried in the crown of Shiro’s starlight soft hair. He strokes down Shiro’s back, where scars crisscross smooth skin. Scars like the opposite of palmistry, the lines that people say will tell your fate; these only tell of the past. 

  


“You haven’t hurt me, Shiro,” Keith tells him, hand settled on the back of Shiro’s neck. He runs his thumb over Shiro’s skin, can feel the rapidness of his pulse. “I’m safe— I’m. I’m here. With you.” 

  


Shiro is still lost in that bad dream. “The way you looked at me.” He shudders out a sob and Keith holds him closer. “Fuck, Keith,” 

  


“I know how I look at you, Shiro.” Keith says quietly. It’s not with fear. “I—”

  


“You said we were like brothers,” Shiro tells him, against Keith’s chest. His breath is hot, his tears are hot. He holds Keith closer. He’s shuddering. “Keith, I can’t lose you.” 

  


Keith’s hands still over Shiro’s back. He swallows. 

  


He was ready to declare that Shiro could not hurt him, could never hurt him, 

  


“I can’t lose you,” Shiro says again, like a vow. 

  


“You won’t lose me,” Keith manages, caught against him. It’s not the promise he intended to make. His chest aches. 

  


Keith swallows again, holding the man he loves as close as he can. “Shiro. I— you’re cold.” 

  


Shiro clears his throat. He sits up, but Keith’s touch trails down his arm, unwilling to let Shiro go far. He cradles Shiro’s hand in his. 

  


Shiro looks away. Shrugs his shoulders. Even with eyelashes wet from tears, Keith thinks he’s beautiful. 

  


“Might be because I’ve been sitting on the floor crying in my underwear for the past four hours,” Shiro says, dry. He shifts, self-consciousness passing across his face as he looks down at the little he’s wearing. 

  


Despite everything, Keith smiles. “Might be.” He shrugs off his jacket, uses one hand to lay it over Shiro’s shoulders. 

  


Shiro watches him, watches the movement. He touches Keith’s cheek again, and then apologizes for it, looking away. “Thank you, Keith.” 

  


Keith shakes his head; there’s no reason to apologize, no reason to thank him. Shiro slumps against him again, sighing out. His forehead on Keith’s shoulder. It’s casual and sweet. It’s a clear message that Keith’s presence is helping him. The thought makes Keith’s heart swell, and break. 

  


“Stay with me today?” Shiro asks. Keith can feel how tense he is. 

  


“Yeah.” Keith says, like Shiro can’t hear how fast his heart is beating, how loudly it’s breaking. Like this isn’t the first time in all the time they’ve known each other that Shiro has requested more time than Keith has freely given. 

  


Keith nods. “But not here.” He stands, helping Shiro up. Shiro leans against him. 

  


With the weight comes a distinct feeling of having been here before. Having lived this moment before, just like this. But that can’t be true. 

  


*

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading. this fic has been a wip for a long time and I'm so excited to finally be posting it. 
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/jacqulinetan) if you like


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